


Past Lives

by elvisqueso



Category: Hannibal (TV), King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dreams, I started this at 5 am on a weekday, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, eventually...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvisqueso/pseuds/elvisqueso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will's dreams of a time long ago become more and more vivid, and the lines between these dreams and reality become more and more undefined.</p><p>I wrote most of this at 5 am I am not well</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Lives

**Author's Note:**

> As said in the summary, begun at an ungodly hour and for some reason a couple people on tumblr wanted me to continue it.  
> Please feel free to nit-pick, as I don't ever have a beta. Your input and opinions are greatly valued and appreciated, especially since this particular work is so roughly done.

Persistence in dreams had often been regarded as premonition, as a chart or outline of what was to come.  But dreams that outline the past are rare, even rarer are dreams that repeat so exactly, and follow so precise a timeline.  Will’s dreams, he reasoned, were an escape mechanism for his empathy, an alternate world, carefully constructed, to distract his consciousness from the harrowing reality and underlying madness that plagued him in waking hours and some of his nightly ones.

///

_A firm hand on his shoulder squeezed lightly, not with worry or with apprehension, but with pride and with blessing.  Galahad looked up at his father, battle-scarred and rugged, his beard a grey mess of braiding which Galahad remembered studying in detail when his father told stories of his adventures by the fire at bedtime.  The group of travelers thundered toward the small settlement of yurts, a mass of horses beset by a few roman guards and a small legion of boys, all around Galahad’s age.  Galahad looked to see his mother bringing him their horse, a sandy-dappled stallion named Windstrom.  He mounted his steed and joined the group, calling out one last farewell to his home._

_The guard told them all, 15 years of service in Britain.  15 years of fighting and blood and death and then…what?_ Home _, Galahad thought,_ and then home.  And then rolling fields and broad blue skies and the scent of fur and dry wood and his mother’s hair _.  They moved on quickly to the next settlement, this one smaller, a little cruder than the one he knew.  These people weren’t herders like most, these were hunters and gatherers.  These types travelled fast and efficiently, they never knew the meaning of permanence or even familiarity.  At least with herds there was a route, a certain expanse of land you revisited every once in a while because the animals were comfortable there.  Hunters went where they pleased, when they pleased, ate when hungry, slept when weary and loved when amiable.  The next boy to be collected was one of these.  He was ragged, almost savage looking; a mess of dirty brown hair almost hid his face entirely and two blue marks scratched both of his cheeks.  He had no horse to ride, and no loud cheering to send him off as with the other boys.  He instead strode toward the group alone, carrying a young falcon on his arm and a curious, long blade on his back._

_“Where’s your horse, boy?” the guard barked._

_“Don’t have one.” The runt replied._

_“Why not?”_

_“I jes’ don’t.”_

_“Where’s your father?  Have him lend you his own horse.”_

_“Do me no good.  He doesn’t have a horse neither.”_

_The guard cursed loudly before turning to Galahad, “You there.  Have him ride with you.  You’re all small enough to fit two on a horse anyway.”  The boys exchanged looks before the new runt climbed onto Windstrom behind Galahad._

_“Well,” Galahad ventured, “what’s your name then?” The boy gave him a long, curiously distant look before answering._

_“Tristan.” He said._

_“Galahad.”_

_The boys smiled to each other as the envoy continued its way West, where Britain and their future awaited._

///

They were better than the nightmares, these escapist dreams, Will decided.  They didn’t leave him with a cold sweat and a feeling of sinking dread.  But there was something else, a feeling he couldn’t quite pin down as either melancholy or nostalgia.  He still had the nightmares, of course; those moments of wakeful delusion when Ravenstags and twisted, mutilated bodies sear themselves into his mind.  But those few dreams of elsewhere were just enough of a haven to hold Will together, a comfort that got him through the night.  Like memories you choose to tell of at a dinner table or around the hearth.

He told Hannibal of these dreams, in passing.  Of course he did.  He didn’t see them as significant, and therefore not a topic of discussion.  Hannibal looked at him with that keen curiosity that marks his features most of the time.  They moved on in the conversation, to the case most currently plaguing Will’s psyche.

Hannibal, however, didn’t disregard those escaping dreams like Will had.  That night following their session, he sat up by the hearth, a glass of Pinot Noir in his hand, and pondered whether dreams like that would interfere at all with his plans for Will.

///

_Adolescence is a volatile time for boys.  Even more so when the boys are bred to fight and maim and not much more.  Already the young knights were falling into their roles, beginning to enjoy the work in some strange way._

_“Oi, Tristan.  See that squirrel on that bough over there?  Think I can’t knock it’s little head clear off with my knife?”_

_“Oh, I think you can.  But you’d never be able to find your knife again.”_

_Bohrs laughed loudly and with his whole being.  He did everything with his whole being, felt everything with his whole heart and utilized almost none of his mind.  With a howl he flung his blade at the unsuspecting creature, slicing the head clean off so that the corpse slowly slid from the branch to hit the dirt with a dull thump._

_“Good luck finding that knife.”  Tristan said, eyes fixed onto a red apple which he was cutting small chunks off of with his knife and placing into his mouth almost delicately.  Bohrs scoffed and spent the next half hour rummaging through foliage for the knife he would never see again until Dagonet could persuade him to spar with him instead._

_“Tristan.” For Galahad’s voice Tristan actually looked up from his apple.  He didn’t smile, he rarely smiled, but the acknowledgement was just as good and Galahad understood that.  “Where’s your falcon?”_

_“Hunting.” Tristan replied, quietly accepting Galahad’s presence seating itself comfortably beside him._

_“Mm.”_

///

Watching Hannibal cook was like watching poetry in color.  The look of absolute serenity on Hannibal’s face as he deftly cut and diced vegetables and cutlets of veal almost made Will forget that pounding heat in his brain.  It was a privilege, Will knew, to be allowed this private performance.  An invitation extended only to friends, Hannibal had told him once.  Finding oneself in Baltimore with nowhere else to be, Will decided that accepting was the only reasonable option he had.

They had their private dinner for two: Veal Oscar and sweet lobster with a mix of vegetables in Sauce Churon.

“How do you manage to find all the ingredients for these recipes you make?” Will asks casually.

“It can take a bit of hunting if the item is rare enough,” Hannibal replied, “but the result makes the chase well worth it.”  Will smiled.

///

_Watching Tristan fight was like watching a song manifest physically.  Even in brutality, he was graceful, poised.  The long blade he used almost seemed to flow like a ribbon from his arm when he sliced through the air and through his opponents.  Galahad, amidst the crushing of bones and the crude splitting of flesh with his own sword, would see Tristan perform.  That’s what it was, he judged, a performance.  A grand gesture coated in blood.  Hunting was an art, Tristan had told him once, and art is something to take pleasure and pride in.  Galahad didn’t take pleasure in it.  He killed because it was his task, a method of survival and price.  The faces of those men he killed – even if they were Woads – etched themselves into his memory so that their faces haunted him in those nights when his mind was weary and vulnerable._

_“I don’t kill for pleasure.  Unlike some.”  Galahad had sneered once, thoughts on home and freedom promised still entertaining the forefront of his mind._

_“You should try it sometime,” Tristan suggested, in that same, cool tone he always spoke, “you might get a taste for it.”_


End file.
